


when I sing along with you

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Marijuana, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romanogers Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9179833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: gifted to @cuddlychrislett on tumblr (though the chapter 2 porn that's coming is specifically gifted to @iamproudlysmile as promised).





	

**Author's Note:**

> gifted to @cuddlychrislett on tumblr (though the chapter 2 porn that's coming is specifically gifted to @iamproudlysmile as promised).

Steve Rogers was as good as they come. A walking cliche, arguably, but in country music, it worked. More than that, it sold. Steve, a good old boy who loved his mama and his dog, whose ode to the USA was played at every Fourth of July event. A man’s man, sure, as evidenced by the photoshoots of him down home sharing a beer with the locals. But any woman who didn’t say the blush on his face and the way his ass fit his wranglers wasn’t a selling point for his album was lying.

He was, according to his agent, the face and the voice that everyone wanted. Sales were unbelievable, venues were booked, and he was constantly asked ‘what’s next’? _(“I am working on a new record now” was the official, scripted response even though he’d been blocked for nearly a year.)_

(Blocked. Unable to come with a single good lyric beyond stupid songs about his stupid dog, no matter how hard he tried. His last record had earned five Grammys and was heralded as The Record to Convert People to Country. Which wasn’t even a good thing, no matter how many times anyone told him otherwise, because when he was seventeen and begging for the chance to open mic, the last thing he envisioned ten years later was selling out.)

But he was selling out. He was putting out bullshit pop-country songs that played at the grocery store while people picked out frozen pizza and thumped melons. And he felt like a hack because even with a paycheck and gold records and accolades, he was not _Steve Rogers_ anymore. He was a brand. Captain America, from the U, S of A, even though he hadn’t ever served in the military. One emotion-based song, (“No, You Move”) after 9/11, and he had fans tell him they cried every year when they heard just the opening chords.

That was touching, it was, except that it set him on a path toward the creation of songs that everyone liked, except him. Steve was tired of pandering, tired of making the same sound, wanted to re-incorporate more of the blues and the Gospel that he’d started out with. That didn’t sell, his manager was stern and to the point. As if all that mattered was what sold.

Steve wanted to leave it all. Wanted to take his guitar and get into his Ford and just drive, until he could figure it all out. Until he felt like himself again.

***

The first time he heard anything about Natasha Romanoff, he was ashamed to say he’d asked to turn her music down.

The truth was that he’d had a bitch of a hangover. Superbowl Sunday and Bucky had decided they should sit out back and deep fry everything, tossing beers back like water until they were both passed out and stomachs so full it was a sin. This was a ritual he craved, going home to spend the weekend with Bucky, who’d been his friend since they were in diapers and who didn’t give a rat’s you-know-what if he was famous, so long as he chipped in for the booze and didn’t pretend he was above some KFC or generic toilet paper.

His first Monday morning memory was the sound of drums and a car engine revving, before angry vocals about driving to Mexico.

“Off,” he groaned, falling off the couch onto the floor. Bucky groaned and echoed the sentiment, calling his sister with his hand on his head.

“Becca, Christ on a stick, turn it off,” Bucky yelled, stumbling down the hall of their modest suburban home so that he could pound on the door, the sound of that enough to make Steve’s stomach lurch, his head throbbing. That whiskey had been such a stupid idea, no matter if they were celebrating their team’s win, and he buried his head in his hands.

The volume mercifully lowered seconds later and Bucky’s kid sister poked her head out apologetically. Becca was a freshman in college and a good kid so he tried to be graceful even as he wanted to snap at her. She still called him ‘Stevie’, one of two people left in his life who knew him that way, and he wondered if she ever bragged to her friends that she knew him.

“It’s fine, Becca,” Steve sighed with a smile. “What kind of racket was that though? Thought you were country through and through?”

Becca snorted and rolled her eyes, pulling her brown-with-patches-of-turquoise hair up into a ponytail. “Only the best band ever. Soviet Bitch? Totally not surprised you don’t know them.”

Steve reached for his boots, looking up at her with amusement. “Becca, I can’t even say the name of that band. Is that really their name?”

“Hell yeah, and they are amazing,” she grinned. “I wanna be Nat Romanoff when I grow up.”

“Was she the one assaulting those drums or the one singing?” Steve tried not to judge, hell he’d been influenced by his fair share of rock n’ rollers, Bono just as much as Garth. Becca shook her head like he was an idiot for not knowing, walking over to open the drapes and assault his senses some more.

“She’s the badass singing, you dork. And I wanna get her lyrics tattooed on my skin, she’s so amazing.”

Steve sat back and watched Bucky’s sister gush about someone who was so important she was worth a tattoo. It made him feel old.

He forgot about Nat Romanoff and Soviet Bitch as soon as he left. After all, punk music and angry tones weren’t his style.

***

He remembered Becca and what she said later that year when he was at an awards show, wishing he’d done a little more research. His last single was being nominated for Song of the Year, next to something from an up-and-coming all-female punk rock band. Soviet Bitch.

The buzz was that he’d win and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it, didn’t want to be recognized for “Just a Kid,” the one song he’d written that meant something. He started off the evening in too tight shoes, totally optimistic that he might go home a winner.

“You’re nominated this year against Soviet Bitch,” a reporter asked him as he arrived, the reporter’s teeth clenching along the second word in the band’s name. Steve shrugged and smiled carefully, just like his mama had taught him, so as not to look too proud.

“My niece loves them, they’re great.” He didn’t actually know if they were great, but Becca was for all intents and purposes his niece and she was probably screaming at home because he’d mentioned her.

“Strange comparisons have to be made, between your genre and theirs,” the reporter continued, the microphone so close to his face that he could smell it. He took a step back.

“Music is music, ma’am.” And he meant it.

Until Soviet Bitch started cleaning up all of the other categories they’d been nominated in.

Steve watched, enthralled, as the band went up to the stage again and again, his jaw on the floor as the front woman passed him, her long red hair done up like some sort of braided fake-mohawk mess and her black dress so tight and short that if she bent over, she’d be embarrassed. He had a inkling she wouldn’t care or be embarrassed at all, his collar hot because the heels she was wearing were metal spiky things that made long legs seem longer and holy hell, she had great legs.

The buzz was that their song, the one about a woman a angry at men that she cuts her cheating lover’s male… appendage… off and drives away to Mexico to be free, was too explicit for television. Steve had heard the buzz that they had been forced to perform a different, more mellow song for the telecast. He’d even been asked by someone on the red carpet about his opinion on possible censorship, (he’d said they should go right ahead and sing whatever they wanted because that was the song they’d been nominated for and what about free speech?) He still believed that and when he saw the band collect their awards in three other categories, he found himself waiting to see what they were all about.

The auditorium was hushed when they took the stage and he looked around, curious about what all of the middle-aged studio insiders thought of a band with a name no one could hardly say out loud. He’d already performed his own song to applause, and he thought with a little indignance and a little more pride that he had nailed it. Whether or not they were edgy, his own brand of comfortable and safe was a win more likely.

When the lights came on, everyone gasped. Nat Romanoff and her band had taken the stage and he watched her, seated on a stool and picking at a guitar, her face calm. She was wearing a white t-shirt over the black dress and when she tried to look at everyone- the audience, the television cameras, the fans- she looked defiant, like a queen.

What they’d chosen to do, he soon realized, was to sing an acoustic version of their song, every word pronounced boldly and going right to Steve’s gut. It was so much more than the man-hating girl-power song he’d brushed it off as. It was angry. But her voice was haunting and throaty and the words were so raw and powerful. He believed every bit of the lyrics, believed her, the hair on his forearms standing straight up. This band- and its singer- were legends in the making and he swallowed, understanding he was watching history.

At the chorus, the camera panned over her shirt and he choked, black lettering saying “I sing whatever the fuck I want”.

It was brave and amazing.

When Soviet Bitch bested him in the Song of the Year category, he understood why.

***

He met her later that night, at an industry party that was equal parts loud and fake. Who knew they were on the same label? Steve was making uncomfortable small talk with another artist, a young singer who was trying to convince everyone she was more serious than the bubblegum pop that she was pushed into selling, when he saw the lead singer across the room, champagne glass in hand.

The pop singer beside him was going on about her new probiotic diet when he nodded and excused himself, taking a step toward the kitchen so that he could get some fresh air in the alley behind the dining hall that had been rented out for them.

He thought about the night, the chill hitting his bones, and what he was even doing making music anymore. The loss had hit him harder than he thought it would, another nail in the coffin that was his career, as if losing to punk rock had taken away all of his legitimacy as an artist. The truth was that he knew he couldn’t blame the nausea in his gut on a feminist punk band or it’s leggy lead singer. It was a symptom of exactly what he’d been afraid to admit to himself.

He was not just blocked, he was creatively defunct. And with that thought, every thought about being too old for the business even though he was not yet thirty, flooded back. He was a hack. Out of touch and old news. He leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes, filling his chest with air as he took a deep breath because he’d gone to therapy once or twice and knew he was panicking over a stupid award.

“You alright?”

He opened his eyes at the voice and looked toward the door, not even hearing it open. And there she was, like a cruel joke-turned-mirage-turned-wet dream, her arms covering her chest in the cold and her face scrunched up in concern. Up close, he could see the gold and silver earrings along her ear, the stud in her nose. He could memorize the rose tattooed on her wrist, the colors as sharp as its’ thorns.

“You look freezing,” he answered, tipping his hat out of habit.

“You look like you are going to throw up all over this alleyway,” Nat Romanoff shrugged, taking a step toward him, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her small black clutch. She offered him one and he shook his head before holding his hand out because what the hell.

“Your performance tonight was incredible,” Steve said honestly, putting the cigarette in his lips and leaning down when she flipped on her lighter. She smiled, sucking on her her own smoke for a second, carefully as if she was trying to decide what to say.

“So was yours,” she said after exhaling.

He laughed, trying to imagine what she really thought about his music, much more safe than hers. And then he looked over, his eyes trailing over the gooseflesh on her arms, and pulled his suit jacket off.

“Ma’am,” he said, cigarette dangling so that he could offer it to her. She hesitated and then stepped closer, allowing him to put it over her shoulders, and when she met his eyes, she looked grateful.

“So what are you doing out here….”

She bit her lip and reached out her hand, like it was a question she didn’t want to answer. He couldn’t blame her, not like he was advertising his own panic attacks. “You wanna go for a walk?”

A walk turned into hijacking her limo and the two of them sharing a joint she’d pulled out of the center console and small talk that felt like they’d been friends for years. Which might have been the weed, Steve wasn’t sure and didn’t care. They listened to classic rock and old soul music off her phone and he felt relaxed for the first time all night, even beside a girl in a minidress with punk hair. She admitted her name was actually Natasha and spoke to him in Russian and he listened, captivated.

“It’s crazy, I can still remember when I first heard myself on the radio,” she said, her voice soft and eyes misty, and Steve sighed because he could too.

“You know, my niece loves your music,” he admitted for the second time that night and she smiled to herself.

“I’m sure that hurts.”

Steve shrugged, passing the joint over. “Not really. I mean, I get it… she’s young and angry…”

Nat  laughed before taking a quick hit. “My bread and butter. Young and angry.”

He furrowed his brow, hoping that he hadn’t said the wrong thing, thinking maybe it had made more sense in his head, and then he was thinking about what he could possibly do to make it better.

“How many tattoos do you have?” he asked quickly, changing the subject and then wincing because he really wanted to know but even he had the sense to know that was hardly a question to ask someone he barely knew, breaking bread in a limo or no. She laughed and snuffed the joint out in the ashtray, her eyebrow raised playfully.

“Don’t you have any? Or are you really as pure as your image suggests, Country Boy?”

Steve didn’t have any tattoos, had never thought about it in all honesty. He remembered middle school, when Tommy Johnson got an earring and his mother said she’d rip it out if he ever dared. The edgiest he ever got was putting a little hair gel in his hair, he couldn’t imagine marking up his body.

Even as his eyes refused to leave the marks on hers.

“Five,” she announced.

“Here.” The rose on her wrist.

“And here.” The music note on the nape of her neck.

“And here.” The heart on her ankle.

He watched, enthralled and then his jaw on the floor as she moved so that she could hike up her dress, so that he could see a lacy black bikini and the flat of her stomach. A small black widow spider covering what looked like an old scar.

“My first,” she admitted, gasping when he reached out to brush his fingers over it. Another thing he’d done without thinking because he seemed to lack filter and forethought around her.

“The last one you can’t see,” she said with a wink and he looked up to meet her eyes, dark green and her ruby red lips parted again like she wanted to say something.

“Can I call you Natasha?” he asked, his throat dry and everything in him suddenly very alert to her. She laughed, straddled his lap before he could protest not that he even would, taking his hat off and tossing it onto the seat next to them.

“Can I call you Steve?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned forward and captured her lips with his. It was bold and thoughtless and she tasted smoky and minty and moaned into his mouth. He buried his hands in her hair and they kissed through the entire two minutes and something of “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” on the radio, until they were both breathless and hot.

“God bless America,” she sighed and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

It took five songs for them to stop, the kissing and the weed and the lack of air in the car enough to make him dizzy. And even then they only stopped when she got a phone call from a bandmate to reminder her of a photo op that they’d promised to take.

Before he left her limo, his hair mussed and his lips burning, she wrote her number on his hand and texted Becca to say thank you for the support.

***

_Hey, Country Boy, will you get on your knees_

_Will you get on your knees,_

_Sweet boy will you get on your knees for me_

_That pretty tongue of yours gets me like oh_

_Will you get on your knees for me_

“Steve, oh my god, that’s you isn’t it?”

Becca plopped next to him, her eyes wide as saucers as she played the song for him. His cheeks burned because Becca knew he’d met Nat…Natasha Romanoff at the music awards but no one knew they’d… well, they’d made out in the parking lot at the afterparty. No one knew and all they’d done anyway was some of the best kissing of his life, nothing more…

“Steve, are you the country boy, oh my god…” she squealed, jumping up and down in her seat before he could answer, as if his non-answer was saying anything.

“Me? What… no…” he stammered. “It’s just a song, Becca.”

“Nat Romanoff”s last boyfriend was some guy from Russia, where she’s from, Steve. She doesn’t… you two hung out at the awards show…”

“Becca, you are obsessed. It’s not me…” Steve protested, listening to the sex that flowed through the song like a subliminal message for him. He hadn’t… they hadn’t even spoken since… and that was months- nearly a whole year- ago.

“Yeah but you like her,” Becca beamed. “You play her music in your truck, I heard you the other day. Maybe she likes you too.”

This was ridiculous, naturally, and Steve scoffed through Becca’s wise twenty year old nod. The very idea that a few stoned hours necking would inspire Soviet Bitch’s next single, the very idea that maybe he’d inspired her as much as she’d inspired him…

Well, she had. He’d started writing that night, nothing intelligible of course, but quick pencil scratches onto the back of envelopes for bills, one boot on and one boot off because there were words about how good it had felt to kiss her that he wanted to write down before he forgot. His dog curled next to him on the bed that he was too lazy to make and he wrote down an entire first verse before laying down to sleep. When he dreamed, he dreamed about her skin and her hair and the taste of her.

It was one reasons why he’d never contacted her.

Modern wisdom and his own experiences said that dating someone in the industry was a bad idea, no matter how much he thought of her, no matter how much he tried not googling her, his ears piqued anytime her name or the band came up in conversation. Too much work, too much competition and ego. He found out the morning that she lived in LA, which was fine but his home base was outside Nashville, even if he’d been flying out West more and more. That meant long-distance and even more work. Logistically, it wasn’t worth a shot.

But even more than logistics was the conventional wisdom that they were just too different. Her music was raw and provocative. A month after he met her, he caught a paparazzi pic of her at a cafe in West Hollywood, her hair bleached blonde and wild, her eyes hidden behind aviators. She looked amazing. He picked up his phone and dialed her number even, until he realized she’d probably only answer out of pity.

Not that he wasn’t a catch, because he knew he was. He could, if he wanted to, date anyone he wanted as evidenced by the string of models and then the one relationship that he’d just gotten out of, with Sharon Carter _(_ _the magazines and gossip shows had mourned the death of ‘Staron’ seemingly finding out about that break-up only minutes after they’d actually called it quits, their prowess enough to spook him on dating other celebrities for good. He’d really loved Sharon, but again, too much work, to much distance, too much ego…_ _)_ But Sharon had been…normal. A televison actress who’d grown up in Knoxville, he’d met her at one of his shows and it had made sense. They had made sense, with no one surprised at all.

Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff did not make sense.

And so he didn’t call her, even if he thought about her all the time, even if he start listening to Soviet Bitch when he was driving. And when he heard that song, he was adamant about how preposterous it was that it could be about him. Impossible. It was impossible that she thought of him enough to write it in a song.

A song about him on his knees.

On his knees doing Lord knew what.

Steve knew exactly what.

He remembered her naked legs on either side of his thighs, remembered the lace of her underwear as she licked his lips and shivered in his arms. The very idea of getting on his knees for her? Wouldn’t be for praying, he knew that much, and based on the feedback he’d ever gotten, he thought he’d probably make it good for her. Which led him to thinking about actually parting her thighs and kneeling, a dangerous rabbit hole that made nights difficult.

He should have texted her after Becca brought it up, even just to say he’d heard the song and ‘congratulations’. He didn’t.

He was a coward.

***

“No, I am not doing this.” Steve crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed at the very idea of what Phil Coulson, his agent, was suggesting. Phil was damned good at his job, he was the one who had pulled him out of dive bars and open mics all those years ago, and he trusted him most of the time. Phil was a stereotype, a city slicker who visited Steve’s ranch with a soy latte and bagels. Phil was also sharp and persistent, not walking away until he got what he wanted.

What he wanted was for Steve to co-host a network New Year’s Eve show. The one where fake audiences cheer and wear silly hats and glasses and watch the ball drop in New York city, the one with the muppets, the one with toned down top forty and bright colors and a big paycheck.

“Who else is playing? Do I have to do a skit with Miss Piggy, Phil? Because if I do, the answer is no way in hell.”

One corner of his agent’s mouth turned up and he held up his hand to shield the sun. “No pigs. I can negotiate pigs, Steve. But it will be legitimate…”

Steve grit his teeth and thought about the pros of getting paid versus sacrificing any professional dignity he had left. “Who else?”

“Taylor Swift, Lucky Neko, the Rescue Bots,” Phil said quickly. “Nat Romanoff…”

“Nat,” Steve swallowed, sold right then and there. Phil grinned because he knew it.

“She’s doing some solo work apparently, though I’d pay her myself to sing the song about you going down on her.”

***

_**Girl on Fire** _

_By Christine Everhart, Glamour Magazine_

_Nat Romanoff is the real deal. The frontwoman to the all female punk band Soviet Bitch, the very band that took the world by storm and swept the music awards last year, the very band that pushes envelopes with edgy songs like “Mexico” and “Country Boy”, is just as edgy in person as she is on stage. I sat down with her at her cozy home in Los Angeles- yes, cozy- determined to find out how much of this Russian native is as punk as she seems._

_Romanoff, gracious and yet understandably guarded in light of recent scandals involving her manager, Alexei Shostokov (current trial scheduled for after the new year), shared coffee in kitschy mugs she’d admitted to collecting in airports while on tour.  Her legendary hair was chopped short, chin length and modest in what seemed to be as natural a hair color as anyone has ever seen, and I instantly wondered if she was losing some of the angry punk we’ve all come to expect._

_(Not likely, as evidenced by her perfectly painted black fingernails and the colorful language she interspersed throughout this interview, unapologetically)._

_When I prepared my list of questions to ask, I worried about what was off-limits. Never had I anticipated someone so honest and candid, though perhaps based on her lyrics, I should have been wiser._

_**Christine Everhart** : It’s been an amazing year for you, hasn’t it? _

_**Nat Romanoff** : It’s been unreal. _

_**CE** : The highlight? Soviet Bitch won Album and Song of the Year. Sales are through the roof…_

_**NR** : (laughs quietly), Honestly? The fans. Hearing a girl in Tulsa say my words resonate, that she’s been there._

_**CE** : Well, if anyone knows about what it’s like to dominate a country boy, it’s a girl from Tulsa. You’ve never spoken about that song, though everyone has a guess about the story behind it. When did you, a girl from Moscow, ever run into a country boy?_

_**NR:** Well, it’s not entirely autobiographical, that song…_

_**CE** **:** The fan theory is that it’s about Steve Rogers. _

_At this point, Romanoff hides her small smile behind her mug, her posture not at all defensive or in denial, as if she’s using the coffee in order to bide time before she answers._

_**NR** **:** I’ve only met [Rogers] once, at the awards…_

_**CE** : Speaking of, Rogers has been one of your most outspoken supporters in light of recent events…_

_Romanoff blanches, her face harder to read and understandably so. During the time of our interview, Shostakov is under house arrest for child pornography and tax evasion. Days after the interview, a grainy black and white sex tape involving Shostakov and Romanoff will be leaked, presumably by Shostakov himself. She hides it well, but the punk singer is clearly affected by the invasion into her life and the rupture between her and a colleague who was instrumental in helping her and the band get their big break._

_**NR** **:** From what I remember, Steve Rogers is as kind as he looks. I’m grateful for his support. _

_…_

_My first impression of Romanoff was just how infectious her enthusiasm for her music and the ideals behind it were. At the end of the interview, I also wanted to wear a t-shirt to proclaim my independence from men and patriarchy. I also wanted to paint my nails black and reclaim words that I contractually cannot write in this article. Her fire stirred my own as it has for millions, her status as an icon well-earned and worth watching out for._

***

Ninety percent of the New Year’s Eve telecast was a blur. Steve remembered a small studio audience being prompted and bribed with show tickets and gift card giveaways to applaud and cheer as loud as they could. He remembered hot studio lights and pancaked makeup no matter how much he refused. He remembered that his jaw hurt from fake-smiling and his throat was sore by the end of the evening just from all of the feigned excitement

He remembered singing “Auld Lang Syne” with Miss Piggy and Miss Piggy’s handler, an affable-looking man who shook his hand and spoke with a normal midwestern accent after the cameras had cut.

He remembered seeing Natasha, skin tight leather pants and a pick between her teeth as she tuned her guitar on the stage. She met his eyes and nodded, something in her eyes trying to communicate a message he couldn’t get because he was too busy trying to remember how to breathe. She looked amazing. Hard and yet so feminine, perhaps because he remembered how she felt, and from off stage he felt like he had the advantage of seeing the way she disappeared into a trance once the music started.

She got through one verse before he’d made up his mind to pull her aside as soon as he got the chance, to apologize for never calling and to ask her about that damned song. When she finished, the audience cheered and clapped and whistled genuinely. He took a step in her direction, grateful for the commercial break, his stride broken only when the stage manager interrupted him to review the next bit. Introduce another artist, check in with Times Square, mention the sponsors, and smile. He watched, chest tightened as she walked past him toward her assistant.

He missed her the rest of that night, his memories vague on the fact that at midnight the stage exploded with confetti and he got to wave to the happy and freezing cold public outside, got to watch with a hint of jealousy as people around him kissed and hugged and breathed a sigh of relief that the year was finally over.

As soon as the credits rolled and the lights finally dimmed, he looked for her. She wasn’t backstage and for a second he thought he’d missed her until he overheard someone say she was in her dressing room.

She answered on the first knock, eyes wide with recognition and a barely audible gasp as she opened the door.  His first instinct on seeing her was to take a step back, to apologize for bothering her or interrupting whatever she did post-show. But he had a million other thoughts in mind too, a million other things he wanted to say. That she looked incredible, that he couldn’t get her lips out of his mind, that he wanted to know if she’d really written that song about him.

“You never called,” she said with a raised eyebrow and one hand on her hip and he winced because he hadn’t, even if he’d dialed her number a thousand and one times.

“I…” he started to say something, anything, even though his brain had stopped communicating with his tongue. She was smiling then, her face twisted like she was biting the inside of her cheek and he thought about telling her that he’d bought all of her albums, that she inspired him even if she was loud and angry and bold because she was a helluva lot braver in her lyrics than he was or ever dared to be.

Instead he blurted out something else, his hands clutching the doorframe in case she said no.

“Run away with me.”

She blinked and tipped her head like she couldn’t quite hear him and he swallowed repeating it, more and more sure the second time.

“I mean it. Natasha, run away with me. Let’s go…”

“Steve,” she said with a step back, opening the door so he could go inside.He stood still, boots planted on the ground, because he wouldn’t leave until she said yes.

“Go where? Steve, that’s insane…”

“Natasha, I can’t get you outta my mind. Let’s go. I’ve got my truck…”

She laughed and when he looked over her shoulder, he saw a glossy gossip magazine, her ex-manager and the words “ **CROOK**!” emblazoned across the cover. When she followed his gaze, she looked down, eyes shut tight and her mouth in a straight line even tighter.

“Natasha, I will get on my knees if you want…” he started and she scoffed. Steve inhaled, ready to resign and admit defeat. It was crazy, a has-been cowboy and a punk rocker, what in his right mind was he even thinking? That Natasha Romanoff would run away with him…

“Okay,” she said quickly and he let all of the breath he’d been holding in his body go, relief and euphoria washing over him. “Okay, let’s go.”

***

_Runaway with me, Let’s runaway_

_I’m on my knees, just say you will_

_Let’s leave the world behind_

_Runaway with me_

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 


End file.
